


Hour of the Wolf

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode: s05e13 Revelation 6:8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is set directly after Revelation 6:8. Duncan is in one hotel, Methos is in another, yet their thoughts are running along similar lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hour of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 1997 under my real name (young and foolish I was!) 
> 
> Many, many thanks to Sherri F.; if not for her, this story would still be incoherent babblings sitting on my hard drive. Thanks also to Meg, Claire, Sophia, and Theresa for their expertise. 
> 
> I took this title from a _Babylon 5_ episode. Ivanova explained the hour of the wolf: "It's the time between three and four in the morning. You can't sleep, and all you can see is the troubles and the problems and the ways that your life should have gone, but didn't. All you can hear is the sound of your own heart." [Babylon 5 copyright by Warner Brothers and JMS.]

Methos sighed, running his hands over his face for what felt like the thousandth time. He was sitting in his dark hotel room on the couch, still in his clothes. It was the middle of the night, mere hours after he had killed Silas. A sick feeling shot through him as the realization he had killed his brother settled in the pit of his stomach. Rocking back and forth unconsciously, his face in his hands, he willed the images away, but they persisted. The clink of metal on metal as he touched his blade to Silas' ax. Forcing down the bile he felt rising to his throat, commanding his voice to work. 'I am not your brother.' The look of disbelief on Silas' face, changing into bloodlust in an instant. Falling down the ramp; looking up at Kronos' voice. Silas turning back to him, a look in his eyes Methos never thought he'd see directed at him. Steeling himself for the final moments of the fight. Hiding his emotions, forcing them to be silent, until he took his brother's head. Tears rolled down his face, unchecked. "I'm sorry," Methos whispered hoarsely, "but it had to be done." The Horsemen had to be stopped, once and for all. 

The Horsemen had been stopped, once and for all. Duncan MacLeod had made sure of that. He lay on his hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, the day's events whirling around in his head. He should have felt relief at that knowledge, but he didn't. Too many other emotions were warring for dominance inside him. So much had happened in little over a week. Watching Methos try out for the Wheel of History and getting indignant over the missed Chubby Checker answer. Meeting up with Koren again. Learning Methos knew him as Kronos, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse. Learning that Cassandra's people had been destroyed by the Four Horsemen, and that she herself had been a prisoner of them. Of Methos. Learning that a trusted friend might not be either trusted or a friend. MacLeod felt nauseated and grimaced, not just from the discomfort, but from the emotional pain of what Methos had done. Methos had killed for pleasure. Methos had killed Cassandra until she submitted to his will. Methos had ... Methos ... 

'Methos.' Kronos' last word to him caused Methos' heart to stop. That one word had echoed with Kronos' disbelief; his rage; his disgust. Kronos had gravely misjudged Methos and his loyalty. Kronos had assumed Methos had broken all ties, that he had resigned himself to a life with the Horsemen again. But Methos had bested Kronos in their battle of wits; their battle of wills. Their battle for Methos' very soul. This time, Methos had refused to be sold into that life. It held no appeal for him. He had outgrown his angry adolescence. He had taken a stand against Kronos. His blood brother. Another sob wracked his body. Another brother, betrayed. 

'We were brothers'. MacLeod let that phrase roll around in his head, contemplating the many meanings behind it. 'In arms, in blood; in everything except birth.' What was it like, knowing someone for a thousand years? To ride with them, eat with them, be with them, day in and day out? Had that bond kept them from taking each other's heads? Kept them from turning on each other? Brothers in blood. A closer tie than his Clan, a closer tie than birth, in some cases. Blood brothers. What was it like to kill someone you had known for over three thousand years? One you thought of as a brother? What if he had to take Connor's head? The very thought caused him to gasp painfully. He couldn't do it. He would rather die. 

'I'd rather die.' Methos heard Cassandra's words, and knew she spoke the truth. She would never have given in to Kronos or the others. She really would rather have died than touch one of them again. He opened his eyes, seeing Cassandra running across camp, out into the desert. He remembered Kronos' scream, calling half the camp to his tent. All the Horsemen but himself. Methos had stolen into the women's tent, grabbing one of them and taking her back to his tent, pretending to have been with her all along. A threat to tie her naked in the desert and let the animals pick her flesh had assured her allegiance to his lie when Kronos came looking for Cassandra. Even at the risk of Kronos' wrath, Methos had still felt some need to protect her. 

What if something had happened to Cassandra? Ever since she had reappeared in his life, MacLeod had felt a connection to her; a fierce need to protect her. He had been blinded by rage; her rage, and it had driven him and Methos apart. Cassandra believed Methos hadn't changed in three thousand years. She believed he was still a murdering bastard, helping to reunite the Horsemen to bring the world to its knees. She believed that everything Methos did was leading them into a trap. After hearing the story of her first death and how she was treated, MacLeod had not doubted her ... until he spoke to Methos in the churchyard. Had Methos really turned the other way while Cassandra escaped? And what did it mean if he had? 

Why had he let Cassandra go? Had he felt allegiance to her? It surely wasn't guilt; Methos had given up on guilt as a pointless emotion. It wasn't love, either. But, Cassandra was the closest thing he had had to a lover in those days, based on what he knew today to be what _real_ lovers did. It wasn't perfect, but then neither was the world. Or himself. They did the best they could, given the circumstances. They all did whatever was necessary to survive. 

'Still trying to survive.' Cassandra had done what was necessary to survive. She had endured however many weeks - months - years - with the Horsemen - with Methos - until she could escape. And then, thousands of years later, she was confronted by not one, but all of her previous captors, and taken captive again. MacLeod could see Methos shoulder-to-shoulder with Kronos, saw how natural he looked at his side. He could feel Methos' cold, hard stare as he looked to the ancient Immortal for guidance. 'I think she'd rather be dead.' Duncan's own words taunted him, but he knew they were the truth. She would rather have died than be at their mercy again. At Methos' mercy. MacLeod felt tears prick at his eyes. How could that Methos be the same Methos he knew? 

'I'm not like that anymore.' Methos felt rage bubbling up inside him at Kronos' short-sightedness. How could Kronos not have seen and accepted that he had changed? That while Methos might have been born into that life, it was no longer needed? Raised by marauders and taught how to survive by killers, it was no wonder he had hooked up with the Horsemen. But he had found other ways to survive. The power. The freedom. The blood. The wasted lives. Those things were foreign to him now. Due to the Game, killing would always be a part of Methos' life, but it no longer controlled him. He would not let it. As Methos' anger with Kronos faded, his anger at MacLeod surfaced. How could MacLeod not accept that he had changed? Did he see no difference in what had happened three thousand years ago and what had happened in the last week? Did the fact that he had killed Silas mean nothing to MacLeod? 

'Cassandra, I want him to live.' MacLeod had begged Cassandra to spare Methos. He didn't want Methos to die. Why? After what Methos had done to Cassandra, and her people, he deserved to die ... didn't he? Cassandra had the right to vengeance ... didn't she? But three of the Horsemen were dead ... wasn't that enough? 

'No, it is not enough.' Methos sighed in resignation. MacLeod had remained stubborn, only wanting a yes or no answer to his question. What MacLeod failed to realize was that Methos, the Horseman, was dead. At least that was what Methos told himself. He had wondered if there would be a time when he wouldn't have the ghost of the Horseman floating before his eyes. He had seen him every morning when he looked in the mirror, just out of the corner of his eye. The emotionless face, fierce paint, cold stare. He had always been there, just over his shoulder. Some days, he had felt as if he were one step ahead of him. Before Kronos' reappearance, the Horseman had vanished, leaving only himself staring back in the mirror. MacLeod had helped in that, and Joe and Alexa. Oh, he knew getting involved with MacLeod was a risk, but he had a simple solution: never bring it up in conversation. What were the odds that Kronos, or any of the other Horsemen, would find him in Seacouver after two thousand years? He chuckled ironically. Figures. His life settled back down, and another ghost from his past appeared. How many were left now? Only about five or six hundred, if he gave half a thought to it. The question that haunted him now was, was MacLeod one of those ghosts? Would Duncan let Methos back into his nice, black-and- white world? 

'What I've done, you can't forgive. It's not in your nature.' Methos' voice rang inside MacLeod's head, full of anger and hurt. The concept of the Horsemen was still hard for him to accept. What was harder was accepting that one of them was someone he called friend. 'Well you accept it.' But how could he accept something he did not understand fully? All MacLeod had was questions. He wanted answers; he _needed_ answers. 'Which one is real; the Immortal you are, or the one you've become?' He had asked that of Sean Burns, and had taken Sean's head before he got an answer. Now, that question stared him in the face, reflected from a wise- cracking, beer drinking friend. MacLeod wanted the truth, no matter how gruesome. He needed the truth. But what was the truth? Who was Methos? 

'And who are you now?' It was true Methos had many past lives, some horrific, some intoxicating, some exquisite. He had been a Horseman. He had been a slave. He had lived for the kill. He had loved with all his being. He had died for his country many times over. All that was the past; he was who he was now: Methos. But who was Methos now? He was no longer Kronos' strategist. He was no longer a Watcher. He was no longer out of the Game. He wasn't even sure if he had any friends left in the world. The only thing he was sure of was that he was alive. It wasn't much, but it was a start. And it was more than his brothers could say. He felt the rush of emotion again, and fought it back down. He wasn't ready to deal with this again. His breakdown after the Quickening had drained him, emotionally as well as physically, and he was bone tired. Sliding down into the couch, he closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around his chest. 

~~~~~ 

What had happened during that Quickening? MacLeod had never experienced anything like it before. He had never heard of four Immortals fighting simultaneously, either, so he wouldn't be surprised if this was a first for the Watchers. Watchers. MacLeod turned over, picking up the phone as his eyes zeroed in on the clock. It was about 7 pm in Seacouver; Joe should be at the bar. Dialing the number, he waited for someone to pick up. 

"Hi Joe. It's me," MacLeod said softly into the receiver, suddenly overwhelmed with what had happened in the last week. 

"MacLeod! Thank God. Watcher reports are sketchy about what happened in Bordeaux ... is something wrong, Mac?" Joe's rough- and-smooth voice cut right through MacLeod, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

"Well, you could say that. I was just thinking ... " his voice drifted off as he wondered exactly what he was trying to ask. 

"About what?" Joe prompted. 

MacLeod was silent for a moment, finally sighing. "Everything that happened." 

"It's not Methos, is it?" Joe asked quietly, his voice rough with concern.

Of course it was Methos. He had thought of nothing else all night. "No, it's not him," MacLeod lied. 

When he didn't elaborate, Joe again prodded him, "Then what? I heard you killed Kronos. Is that it?" 

"Yes, I killed Kronos," he studiously avoided Joe's first question. "And Caspian. But that's not it." 

Joe wasn't stupid; he knew when MacLeod was trying not to answer something. "So what about the other one? And what about Methos? Is Methos still alive?" 

MacLeod closed his eyes, seeing the fight again. Swinging the broadsword in a full arc, Methos let go with one hand, and the sword cut through Silas' neck, the force of Methos' swing taking the sword almost completely in a circle. It was deadly, and elegant, and completely emotionless. Methos' back muscles had tensed immediately afterward, and Methos turned to face him, and he saw the anguish on Methos' face ... "Methos ... Methos took Silas' head." 

Joe let out a combination breath/low whistle. "He took his Silas' head. Ain't that something. Have you talked to him? How's he doing?" he asked, waiting for an answer. Joe waited a full minute before asking, "Mac?" 

Duncan came out of his memories. "I'm here, Joe. Look, I'd rather not talk about it, okay? This whole thing has been draining." 

Joe could hear the strain in MacLeod's voice, and wondered just how hard a fight Kronos had put up. "Mac, are you okay?" he repeated. 

"Just tired," MacLeod murmured into the phone, forcing his eyes open. He didn't want to see the fight anymore. He wanted to forget it. But the memories were too fresh, and the emotions running too high. "Have you had any word on Cassandra?" 

"Cassandra? No. But her Watcher hasn't reported in since the fight. I'm worried for Methos, Mac. Cassandra's Watcher had to see him fight with Silas. At the very least, she had to see him with the rest of the Horsemen. He's not safe anymore." 

"He'll survive," MacLeod hissed sharply, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were stinging, due to all the stress and emotional drainage he had been dealing with -- or so he told himself. 

"Mac, what's gotten into you? Methos needs our help ... " Joe tried to explain. 

"Methos is more than capable of taking care of himself. It's what he's good at," MacLeod snapped impatiently, cutting off the rest of Joe's plea. 

Joe was growing impatient, himself. "What does that mean? Mac, what happened over there? Did he do something?" 

Duncan laughed humorlessly. "You could say that. He reunited the Horsemen, planned the takeover of Europe, planned my meeting with Kronos ... he set the whole thing up." 

It was Joe's turn to be silent for a minute. "You know that for sure?" he queried. "Methos actually said he set it up?" 

MacLeod waited the space of a heartbeat before answering. "No, he didn't actually say it. But he didn't have to. I just know, okay?" 

"You 'just know'," Joe repeated sarcastically. "Well, I'm so glad you're psychic, Mac. I know that talking to the man certainly would be wasting time." 

He sighed with forced patience. "Look, Joe, I really don't want to discuss this now. I'm tired, and I just wanted to check in ... " 

He heard Joe's rage coming across the ocean and two continents. "You're tired? You selfish bastard. Have you even thought of what _he's_ had to go through? The ghosts he's had to deal with? His past just came back with the force of a hurricane. He was swept along like a piece of driftwood in the middle of it, only able to turn a little in each direction before he was pulled somewhere else. How would you have reacted? How would you have dealt with it? Methos managed to save the world from the reunited Horsemen, MacLeod. He managed to save you and Cassandra. He killed someone he'd known for over three thousand years, and now he's being abandoned by the one friend he trusted enough to help him. And you're going to tell me _you've_ had it rough? Pardon my French, but fuck you, man." 

Duncan was flabbergasted. "Joe, I --" 

Joe's voice was harder than steel as he spat, "No. I don't want to hear it. You give me a call when you get a clue, MacLeod." 

And the receiver went dead in MacLeod's hand. 

~~~~~ 

MacLeod stared at the receiver for a long while, then slammed it back onto the cradle. Anger flared through him, and he scowled. What had gotten into Joe? Didn't he realize what Methos had been? What he had done? 'Different times, MacLeod. Different rules. Different morals. Can't compare it.' Didn't Joe _care_ that Methos had killed thousands of people? That Methos had _liked_ it? 'Can you imagine him, murdering women and children for pleasure?' How could Joe be so trusting of Methos? How could Joe just ... accept Methos like that? And how could Joe understand, being a mortal? 'I have. Vietnam.' MacLeod sighed, running his hands over his face. His anger had faded, leaving him feeling drained. Joe _could_ understand what Methos had done. But how had Joe accepted it? How could Joe just ... ignore what Methos had done? 'I know your strength. I know your will. I know your goodness. And whatever monsters are in you now, I know you're still in there too.' Joe hadn't given up on him during the Dark Quickening. Joe had trusted that Duncan wouldn't kill him; had trusted in their friendship. Is that how Joe did it? Joe just ... trusted that Methos had changed? 'Sometimes all you have to go with is your gut.' Had Joe's gut said that Methos had changed? MacLeod laid back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. But this time, silent tears tracked down the sides of his face. 

Sweat beaded on Methos' face as he turned again, burying his head into the cushions. He had shoved his emotions so far down, so deep within himself, that he didn't think anything could have brought them to the surface again. Seeing Kronos, then Cassandra, had done it. Methos' world had shattered into a million shards, his safe haven was destroyed forever, and he had almost fallen back into old patterns. Kronos had a way with words; he could manipulate Methos into doing exactly what he wanted; he always could. Methos was good, but Kronos was better. Kronos always could read him like a book; it was something they shared. They knew each other so well, they could almost finish each other's thoughts. And as Kronos relived the past, bringing up the power, tantalizing him with it, Methos had almost let himself be drawn into that life again. Kronos' pull was powerful ... the power of being a god ... it was seductive, but Methos had fought it. He had come too far to be tempted again after thousands of years. He had changed. 

What if he had been wrong about Methos? MacLeod wiped at his face, taking a deep breath. Joe's parting remarks had stung, but they had also shaken him up. He was forcing himself to look at Methos' actions objectively, or at least, as objectively as he could. Methos had led MacLeod to Kronos, hoping Duncan could take Kronos' head. Whether that was the original plan or not didn't matter. What mattered was, Methos had _tried_ to stop Kronos. MacLeod replayed his first fight with Kronos in his head, looking for the elusive clue that had been bugging him. Something about that fight had seemed familiar. Finally, he remembered: his first meeting with Methos, and his fight with Kalas. Methos had interfered in that fight as well, stopping it because Methos hadn't been sure that MacLeod could beat Kalas. Was that why Methos interfered in his fight with Kronos? Methos had feared one of them would lose? But which one? Did Methos do it for him, or for Kronos? If Methos had done it for him, then why hadn't Methos come with MacLeod at the church? What sort of power could Kronos have over Methos, that Methos would risk everything - including his friendships and current life - to go with him? MacLeod had seen up close and personal how vicious Kronos could be. How utterly without conscience; without fear. Wielding his power like a sword, terrorizing his victims before killing them. Was that it? Was Methos afraid of Kronos? 

Methos shifted again, grimacing in his sleep. That part of himself that had refused to be tempted again, had also let Cassandra escape three thousand years ago, and had dumped her off the bridge out of harm's way a few days ago. His grimace turned into a frown of disgust. Stupid, fool woman. She hadn't recognized that someone had been trying to help her. She would have lost her head to Kronos if he hadn't stepped in. Then again at the cage, when she refused to believe that he didn't love her. He recognized what she felt; he had felt something too. But he realized it wasn't love. He had tossed that out gently to get her fire stirred up. Methos expected her to fight, he _needed_ her to fight, because he alone could not stop the Horsemen. Methos needed her, because MacLeod had died - or so he thought. Then Kronos announced that Caspian was dead, and his plans shifted again. And the stupid, fool woman had _still_ not gotten it. Subtlety was not her forte, he was sad to say. It never had been. More times than he could remember, he had to send her out of his tent, taking another for the night. She didn't understand. If he kept choosing her, Kronos would notice. And Kronos had, due to Methos' own stupidity. Foolishly letting down his guard, tired from the long journey, he had made a fatal mistake. And Cassandra was taken from him. What he didn't tell MacLeod, and what Cassandra never realized, was the punishment _he_ had received. Disobedience was treated the same in camp, no matter the offender. But Kronos delivered this punishment personally, as he did with everything that involved his dearest brother. 

'And I was good at it.' Those words had been tossed in MacLeod's face; sneering, completely alien words from the man he knew as Methos. Truth be told, Methos frightened him at that point. MacLeod had a strong guess that Methos was even more scared, though. There was a strange light in Methos' eyes, confusion warring with fear, anger warring with impatience. Methos _had_ been scared of Kronos, scared that he might die by his brother's sword, scared MacLeod might die as well. Scared the world might fall under Kronos' reign of terror again. MacLeod remembered in the dojo, right before Cassandra came down from the loft, Methos had been shaking. What _had_ the man gone through? What had happened? Had Kronos gotten to Methos first? Had Kronos driven Methos into pushing MacLeod away, which had lead Duncan right to Kronos? Had Methos planned it all, from that five minute speech until a few hours ago? Was Methos capable of that level of strategy? Or had it all been a string of incredible luck, with a few chance breaks on a wing and a prayer? 

Methos turned to his side on the couch, his breathing ragged. He moaned, lost in the nightmare. But for him, it wasn't something he could wake up from. Hoofbeats across the sand, sword slicing downward, time after time after time; unerringly. Precision and efficiency, that was what he prided himself on. With his plans, an entire village could fall in under an hour, sometimes less, depending on how well the inhabitants could organize a defense. He _was_ good at it. And he did like it ... to an extent. It kept Kronos happy. And he needed Kronos to be happy. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship: Kronos needed him, and he needed the Horsemen. Nowhere else on earth had Methos been as accepted as he was with the Horsemen. No one questioned his healing powers, no one questioned his youthful face staying the same for years at a stretch. What a welcome relief after running for hundreds of years! To finally be _himself_ and not worry about being found out or being stoned to death. But the allure of power had caught up to him, and he became addicted. It had been so easy to believe oneself a god. It just took a gentle nudging of the conscience, tucking it away. The Horsemen were invincible. No one dared cross their path, mortal or Immortal. Those who tried, either perished or came to serve them. 

More and more, MacLeod was beginning to believe Methos had been on his side, though the older Immortal couldn't come out and say it. But Methos' actions had spoken for him. Methos knew Duncan had Joe to help him locate the other Horsemen. Methos had dropped that matchbook, leading him and Cassandra to Bordeaux. Warning him about the bomb. Giving him the tiny clue of the monkeys to allow him to trace where Kronos' hideout was. None of it had been perfect, and a lot of it had been damn straight luck, but it had worked out in the end. Thinking through everything, MacLeod marveled at the risks Methos had taken. At any time, Kronos could have had Methos followed. It finally began to sink in just exactly what Methos had risked to help him. Methos had risked his very life. Kronos was not a man who would forgive betrayal. So why did Methos do it? To stop Kronos, yes, but was there more? 

With a shuddered gasp, Methos jerked awake. The nightmare that was his past started to fade, and he took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. His nerves were raw and exposed, his body weary and beaten. He had been relentlessly on the move for days, with no time to think. Now that he could think, he found he didn't want to. The wounds were still fresh, the pain still sharp. Time, as it always did, would heal him. But for now, he wanted blessed darkness. Pulling himself to his feet, he grabbed a bottle of wine out of the bar, opened it, and started to drink. Before the first drop hit his tongue, he stopped, holding the bottle before him. What good would this do? Dull his pain for a few hours? Make him forget? He could never forget. Maybe that was what MacLeod really meant when he begged Cassandra for his life. Methos would have to live with what he had done. A lot harder than dying for what he had done. Like he didn't know that as well. The damn boyscout. Thought he knew everything, when in truth, MacLeod knew very little. Especially about him. Raising the bottle in a toast, he murmured, "To Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Someday, may your past come back to haunt you." He took a sip and nearly spit it back out. Whatever it was, it was horrible. Looking around for something to wipe his mouth with, his eyes fell on the telephone. Instinctively, he picked up the receiver, and just held it. Who had he intended to call? MacLeod? He doubted MacLeod would speak to him. Joe? He had no idea how Joe felt about him now. A phone call wouldn't tell him much; he'd rather see Joe in person, gauge his reaction then. He put the receiver back down, realizing he had no one to talk to. Sighing, he settled back on the couch, mentally preparing himself to face the rest of the night alone with his demons. 

Whatever Kronos was to Methos, it was something that MacLeod had not shared with anyone in his life. Not with Tessa, not with Fitz, not even with Amanda, though sometimes he thought they might be close. It was nowhere near the bond that Methos and Kronos had shared. Now he had Kronos' Quickening. Would he feel a bond with Methos now as well? Had that transferred with the Quickening? The only way to tell would be to see Methos, talk to him, find out for himself. But was he ready to face Methos yet? Had he forgiven Methos? That thought caused him to pause. Forgiven what? Lying to him? MacLeod had never asked Methos a thing about his past, choosing to respect the man's privacy. Since Methos rarely offered commentary about his life or those he had known, MacLeod could not place that blame entirely on him. Lying about not knowing Cassandra? Methos had asked who she was, but did he really not know who she was? Would he have remembered one face out of ten thousand, even if she was Immortal? He couldn't recall the faces of all those he killed in battle. They were a blur, some even faceless as the warrior blood sang through his veins. Lying ... no, he could not forgive Methos for lying to him, because there was little to forgive. What hurt most was the betrayal. Going along with Kronos, refusing to come with him so they could work on a plan to stop Kronos. Choosing Kronos over him, every step of the way. But Duncan realized now it wasn't because Methos wanted to. It was because of Methos' ties to his blood brothers. It was because Methos wanted to survive. 

Closing his eyes and leaning back on the couch, Methos let himself drift back to his earliest memories. Being Immortal back when the world was still new was frightening. There were those who thought him a god, and he believed it. There were those who thought him a demon, and he believed it. How could he be both? Was he either? Even after thousands of years, he still had no clear answers. He doubted if he ever would. His eyes flew open and he stared at the ceiling. And MacLeod. What did MacLeod think of him now? Would MacLeod be able to accept what Methos had been, put it behind him, and see the man Methos was today? Could MacLeod do it? 

So why did the thought of seeing Methos still send icy shivers down his back? He supposed it was what he had been; a Horseman. Murdering, raping, and destroying; taking whatever he wanted. Cold and heartless. But that image clashed against the man who helped paint Anne's house. The man that helped him with the de Valincourts. The man who fell in love with Alexa, and mourned her death. Were they the same man? A tiny voice inside him answered, 'no,' while another answered, 'yes.' Yes, they were the same man. But the man had changed. Whatever Methos had been, it was what he had _been_. Not who Methos was now. The question remained; was MacLeod ready to face Methos; to hear his side of it? 

Methos let out a low groan; too many questions; not enough answers. His gaze slid to the phone, and his eye narrowed at it. It was just sitting there, but it seemed to be taunting him. Another reminder that he was alone in the world again. At least when the rest of the Horsemen were alive, Methos felt that a part of his past would always be there; always waiting for him. Now ... he was truly alone. He couldn't be sure of MacLeod's friendship, but what of Joe? Methos' hand twitched, and he nearly reached for the phone again. What would the Watcher think of him now? Undoubtedly, MacLeod had told Joe everything he knew about Kronos and Methos ... not that MacLeod had the whole story. Did Joe believe as MacLeod did; that he hadn't changed? Or did Joe see beyond that, and see what Methos was today? 

MacLeod sighed, glancing to the clock. The sun would be rising in less than half an hour. Another sleepless night. He hadn't slept much since he had spotted Kronos back in Seacouver. He wondered briefly where Methos was staying. After they had parted company at the church, he had followed Methos at a safe distance, but the ancient Immortal had just wandered around the countryside, seemingly at random. Maybe it was a random walk; Duncan had taken enough of those in his time to realize Methos needed time to think. And didn't he need the same? Maybe in a few days, or weeks, he would try to look Methos up again. But right now, everything was too raw, too emotional. 

Was this life worth saving? It had come down to the inevitable question. Methos had been Adam Pierson for close to 15 years. He had been a Watcher for ten of those years. There was nothing holding him to Bordeaux, or even Europe for that matter. What was holding him to his Adam Pierson personae? Dawson came immediately to mind. What Joe thought mattered to Methos, and he knew he couldn't just vanish without knowing what Joe felt toward him. He came to a quick decision; he would talk to Joe. But, first and foremost, he had to get out of Bordeaux. He grabbed the phone, dialing the airport and speaking briefly with the agent. Getting the next available flight to Seacouver, Methos quickly gathered his things. He couldn't stay in this city anymore. It held too many memories, all painful. There was nothing in this country he cared about, nothing to stay for. Though MacLeod was out there, probably in the hotel he had sent him to. He picked up the phone again --dialing a number he still had memorized. A clipped, efficient voice greeted him, then he spoke. "Yes. I would like to leave a message for Monsieur Duncan MacLeod." Methos didn't even know what he was calling for. Something inside of him just refused to leave without saying anything. But he couldn't speak to MacLeod. Not yet. "No, no name. Just a message. Tell him ... just tell him ... Joe's. Yes. That's all. Merci." He hung up, then went to check out. His flight left in an hour. 

Duncan fell into a light sleep, disturbing dreams of Methos and Cassandra, Kronos and the rest of the Horsemen to keep him company. He woke up a few hours later, more confused than he had been before he fell asleep. Something had changed during the night. His phone call with Joe had unsettled him, and now in the light of the morning, he wondered if he should talk to Methos. Then he remembered he didn't know where he was staying. A thought trailed right behind that one, and he reached for the phone and dialed the front desk. "Yes, are there any messages for Duncan MacLeod?" He waited impatiently while the clerk checked. His mouth went dry as the clerk read the message to him. "Merci." Macleod hung up the phone, staring as the receiver clattered into place. His hands were trembling. Quickly he moved, booking a flight to Seacouver. The next plane didn't leave for a few hours, so he grabbed a shower and threw his belongings in his suitcase. He ordered room service, but barely touched the food. Giving up all pretext of calmness, he checked out and went to wait at the airport. 

~~~~ 

Methos slept fitfully on the plane, afraid that if he fell into too deep a sleep, the nightmares would return, and he would frighten those around him when he awoke. An ironic smile lifted one corner of his mouth. He had spent over one thousand years frightening people, and now he worried about upsetting a handful around him on a plane. He had a four-hour layover at JFK plus customs to get through; by the time he arrived in Seacouver, Joe should just be arriving to set up. Another perfect plan. 

Five and a half hours later, Methos touched down in Seacouver. From the airport, he went straight to _Joe's_. Forget that he hadn't slept in over fifty hours; if he didn't do this now, he never would. Standing outside the bar, a flood of memories filled his mind. Mostly good, mostly about MacLeod. Closing his eyes briefly, Methos pushed open the door and walked inside. The bar was quiet, being a few hours before Joe opened to the public. Flicking his eyes across the room, he didn't see the owner. Either Joe was in his office, the back room, or had the day off. With all that had gone on in Bordeaux, Methos guessed the office, checking on Watcher reports. Walking to the door, he pushed it open, locking his gaze on Joe's face. 

Joe heard the door creak open and cursed. "Dammit Mike, I told you I didn't want to be disturbed!" He continued tapping away at his portable computer, not looking up. 

Licking his dry lips, Methos replied, "Sorry," very softly. 

Joe's head snapped up, staring at the 5,000-year-old man. His eyes widened, filled with intense sadness, relief, a hint of fear, anger, bitterness ... but no censure. No accusation. 

Methos felt his own eyes fill with tears, and he almost fell, his legs suddenly boneless. His body leaned heavily against the door frame, supported by one shaking hand. "Why?" he croaked, staring disbelievingly at the bartender. 

Joe immediately understood what Methos had asked, and nodded slowly. "I know that there are certain situations where you have no choice. You obey your leader, because you believe he's right, because you're trained to believe he's right. You can't always tell the good guys from the bad, and innocents die. A part of you dies with them, but you go on to the next village, doing the same thing." 

Methos dropped his head, letting Joe's words wash over him. They were so familiar. He had told himself that hundreds of times in camp. His voice was dry and raspy as he continued Joe's line of thought. "Until you realize that there's something wrong in what you're doing, and you defy your leader. You find a way to stop the cycle; to leave, to stop. You leave it behind you; you hope for good." 

Methos swallowed hard, unable to continue. He heard Joe get up and walk toward him, and his body stiffened, waiting for the Watcher to throw him out. He let his emotionless mask slip into place, bracing himself for the moment. When Joe reached out, he shrugged back, avoiding the touch. Methos stared warily at Joe's hand, avoiding the Watcher's eyes. Then Joe's hand settled on Methos' shoulder, squeezing gently, and Methos slumped as if a weight had been put on him. He sank down onto the arm of the couch, his body suddenly too weary to stand. 

Joe softly picked up the thread of conversation. "And then something reminds you; in a picture, a person, a feeling. And it all comes back, and there's nothing you can do to block it, nothing you can do to stop from feeling again. And you do your damnedest to stop it again, this time for good." Joe's voice drifted off, and silence settled between them again. 

Methos took a ragged breath, reliving Silas and Kronos' last few minutes of life. He started shaking, his choked sob finally breaking the silence. "You manage to stop him. Stop all of them. Rid the face of the earth of them. And you get no reward. You get no thanks. All you get is another reminder of just how wrong you were, how weak you were to follow your leader. Even though it was what you were supposed to do, what was required for survival. You still get chastised." He took another breath, his voice dropping to a sarcastic whisper. "For something that happened over three thousand years ago." 

"Could be worse." Methos blinked in surprise at Joe's comment. Joe elaborated, "I managed to go through that in less than fifty years. Not on such a grand scale, but still, essentially the same. You had more time to redeem yourself. Me? I'm not so lucky." 

Methos' eyes flashed green as anger replaced his sorrow. "You \- and I - have nothing to redeem ourselves _for_. We did what was necessary. We survived, and we moved on. Regrets are a weight we carry with us all our lives Joe, regardless if it's for one hundred or one thousand years." His voice cracked, and he swallowed. Methos' hand tentatively reached up and covered Joe's, still resting on his shoulder. Joe had left it there the entire time. He lowered his head, hiding the tears in his eyes. "Thank you, Joe." 

"For what?" Joe asked softly. 

Methos took a deep breath and looked up. "For not judging. For - accepting," Methos dared to pose, and when he saw the slight nod of Joe's head, he knew the Watcher did indeed accept what he had done; what he had been. 

"Well, we're none of us perfect," Joe reminded him, finally breaking contact with Methos. "What about I buy you a drink? You look like hell." 

"Sounds good," Methos replied, his voice thick with guarded emotion. As they walked out of the office into the bar, he remarked softly, "MacLeod will be here today." 

Joe stopped walking and turned to Methos. "How do you know?" 

A tiny, wry smile lifted one corner of Methos' mouth. "Because I know him better than he knows himself." 

The End 


End file.
